


courtesy call

by Saul



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, a bit of a bad end, in which noah's friends are more like him than he'd like, not that the raven boys would let that get them down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 13:22:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8491345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saul/pseuds/Saul
Summary: The real estate agent had not been warned that Monmouth Manufacturing was haunted.





	

**Author's Note:**

> canon divergence from The Raven King.
> 
>  **warning:** as a ghost story, major character deaths are referenced, but they don't ... really want to leave, so. y'know.

“While Monmouth Manufacturing went out of business a number of years ago, the property was bought and refurbished by the Gansey family. The rooms are spacious with especial attention paid to a type of… open-concept decor.”

“So I see.”

“Although it undoubtedly began as a factory, it’s perfectly suited as a home for a small family. All utilities are in working order. Including the air conditioning, which is a must-have for any Henrietta summer.”

“I’d imagine.”

“Well, that concludes the tour. Would you have any other questions?”

“Yes, just one.” The woman glanced at the high ceiling, the carpeted staircases, the old wood and incredibly maintained brick, and, finally, the real estate agent. “Forgive me if I’m out of line, but the pricing is… low.”

That was an understatement.

The agent’s smile dimmed, sympathy welling up exactly on time. “The Gansey family’s son was the main component of Monmouth’s restoration. I am required to tell you that he passed away in this very house three years previous along with a number of his friends.”

The woman stiffened, her hands gripping her elbows. “That’s terrible. How?”

“A gas leak. The piping has since been fixed, I assure you; the son had overlooked it in his reconstruction efforts. But, as you can imagine, the family wants to be free of the property and its memories as soon as possible.”

The woman, a Lisa Holton, agreed - it was very understandable. While the agent tried to shift the conversation elsewhere, the woman admitted she’d need to think it over before making a final bid.

If she wanted, the agent said (a little desperate, a little wheedling, a little exhausted from showing off what she thought was a dead-end property), she could bring her family in and take a second tour.

That, Lisa thought, sounded marvelous. She returned within the week with her partner and two boys.

When they drove up, an alarmingly pale teenager met them at the door.

He was blond and worn, and looked in need of a sandwich and a good rest. When he spoke, Lisa was surprised to find his throat didn’t, in fact, scratch from one too many cigarettes, though the sooty smudge on his cheek made him look like he’d taken a tumble into an ashtray.

“Are you going to move in?”

“Er,” Lisa stammered, “maybe. We’re definitely interested.”

The teen’s head bobbed. He glanced at her partner, who didn’t seem to notice him, and then her boys, who definitely noticed him – they were at the age of being shy around any stranger, and not-so-subtly hid behind her under the teen’s gaze.

What she’d thought was a pause stretched too long, the air between them empty.

Her partner, unconcerned about the teenager, unlocked Monmouth’s door and went in. Lisa could hear her exclamation of, “Oh, wow, rustic!”

“Right. Ah. Excuse us,” Lisa said, tried to calm her nerves, and ushered her boys in first.

When she glanced back, the teenager had disappeared. She couldn’t help a bit of relief. Maybe he’d used the empty house as a meeting place with friends; it was certainly isolated enough to be tempting. She’d been a teenager, once - she knew how it was, finding a place to hang out without adults checking in.

Speaking of children. “Check out the rooms,” she told her eight and ten year old, “but be careful. Don’t touch anything.”

Once they had grinned at each, shaken off any lingering uncertainty over an unfamiliar place and dashed up the stairs, Lisa rounded on her partner. “Do you think that boy was a neighbor?”

Her partner replied, absent-minded as always, “What boy?”

“I call this room!”

“Not fair! I saw it first!”

A door slammed open.

“Be careful!” Lisa called. “It’s not ours yet!”

Her boys didn’t reply. They stamped into the room, but Lisa couldn’t hear them talking.

“Oh, get the mother hen look off your face. They’ll be fine. This house just so spacious,” her partner mused, pulling Lisa along by the arm to the main living space, “what in the world are going to fill it with?”

—

Her boys didn’t reply because they stumbled in on two other, older boys. One, his head shaved and skin crawling with moving ink, sat on an open windowsill; the other, hair a dusty brown and hands full of vines, sat between his legs, his head tipped back onto his leg, eyes closed.

The ten year old, aware of his brother’s surprise and determined to prove himself more courageous, demanded, “Who are you?”

The one marked in black snorted. “Come into my room, and ask me– you’re a pair of brats, aren’t you?”

“Ronan,” the other hushed, “don’t pick a fight with five year olds.”

“We’re not five,” the eight year old protested.

“Oh. Sorry. How old are you?”

“I’m eight, and he’s ten.”

“Brats,” the rude one repeated. “They’re brats. They think they can just take a guy’s room.”

“This is going to be my room,” the ten year old said. It didn’t sound as confident as he wanted it to. “And your name’s Ronan, so – you answered even though you didn’t mean to. And now I know.”

Once again, Ronan scoffed.

“Ronan,” another voice said, close and sudden, “you know what we decided.”

The ten year old whirled to find yet another teenager. Unlike the other two, this one looked like he’d walked out of his mother’s fashion magazines: nice shoes, nice collared shirt, nicely tousled hair. He gave the brothers a closed-lip smile, and then looked over them to address his friends.

“If Monmouth Manufacturing doesn’t sell privately within the next two years, my father will donate it to the people of Henrietta. The town is very likely to vote to demolish it.”

“They can hear you,” the one between Ronan’s legs murmured.

“If it’s demolished,” he continued smoothly, his eyes dropping again to the brothers’, “where would that leave us?”

“No different than before,” Ronan grumbled. He sounded much less confident, and much more unhappy. “You could move in with Blue.”

A small hesitation, and then, as if to make up for that pause, a declaration:

“Not without you two.”

“Stubborn,” the one on the floor murmured.

“Nothing can change that.”

“We’re non-negotiable. Our presence would drive their business into the ground.”

This was an old argument. The brothers’ parents had a few of those, mostly about doing the dishes and mowing the lawn.

The three teenagers went silent. The newest looked a little less than the two by the window; the ten year old couldn’t say how he looked like less, just that he did.

It didn’t suit him, as he acted and dressed like someone who had never been a lesser. Reality either disagreed with his self-perception, or had curbed him out of necessity for those around him.

Unsure of what to do with the teenagers’ stare off, the brothers edged farther into the room and glanced around properly. It wasn’t an impressive room. It had been scrubbed, dusted, and rid of any furniture, though there were a few scuff marks along the walls that even professionals seemed to have given up on getting out.

The vines in the quiet one’s hands had grown, the ten year old noticed with a touch of awe. They stretched up his forearms and spilled onto his legs; they didn’t grow when watched, but with every blink, the ten year old swore they grew. It had to be some crazy foreign plant.

It was pretty neat, but it was nothing compared to Ronan’s tattoo.

The ink on his neck looked like it wanted to jump off his skin. It jerked and blurred, struggled and tugged. Based on the furiously beating wings, it was supposed to be a bird; except it had too many beaks and eyes, and hurt to look at for too long.

The ten year didn’t like it.

The eight year old did.

“That’s a cool tattoo,” he said, curiousity rising. “Can I touch it?”

“Maybe,” Ronan said. “If you’re made of the right stuff.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the right stuff.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is too. Get over here and see.”

His brother edged around him and toward Ronan. He stuck out an arm; the bird tattoo squirmed from his neck to his forearm, a tangle of thorns and flowers and vines pushed out of its way.

His brother gave it a light touch and giggled nervously as the creature spun under his fingers. The ink beaks snapped him; he snatched his hand back, smile wide.

Ronan, without a smile on his face but approval in his voice, “Looks like you have the right stuff.”

Now leaning against the door frame, Mr. Fashion huffed an almost laugh. When the ten year old stole a glance at him, he looked more tired than before, but also - fond. Like he was seeing something he hadn’t in a while.

The guy on the floor cracked open his eyes.

That shouldn’t have grabbed either brother’s attention, but the eight year old (standing close to the pair and too curious for his own good) blurted, “What’s wrong with your eyes?” and so of course the ten year old looked.

Nothing. That was what was wrong. Where there should have been eyes, there was nothing.

Eyes shutting again, his mouth thinned. Ronan straightened behind him, his own expression darkening. The ink on his arms thickened, the too-many-beaked bird growing.

“Hey,” the one at the doorway said, as sudden and insistent as his entrance, “boys? Did you know there’s a secret compartment in the room next door?”

“But–” the eight year old started.

The ten year old snagged his shoulder and yanked him back. He hadn’t liked Ronan’s tattoo before, and he especially didn’t like it now. He wanted to go. A secret compartment sounded much better than prying into the plant guy’s story.

His brother dragged his feet and protested, but went nonetheless.

He picked up interest only when the guy with the nice shoes said, “If this is going to be his bedroom, you could have the one with the secret stowaway,” which even the ten year old had to admit sounded interesting.

—

The tour took all of twenty minutes, and then only so long because Lisa and her wife debated furniture options for the main living space for ten minutes. When they called the boys to meet at the entrance, they came immediately; they also came with a loud and sincere complaint.

“Mooo-ooommm,” her eight year old cried, “we can’t go yet. We haven’t found the secret compartment!”

Her wife smiled, confused but indulgent. “Secret compartment? What are you talking about?”

“Gansey said there was a secret compartment in the upstairs bathroom.”

Lisa’s heart skipped a beat.

Her ten year old scuffed his sneakers against the wood flooring, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Yeah, but then he left before showing us. I think he was lying.”

“Gansey? Did you meet someone?”

“Yeah! He used to live here. He says he likes this place, so he visits a lot.”

Lisa shot her wife a look, ice replacing the blood in her veins.

Was there a crazy in the upstairs? They had found a strange tangle of dead vines under an open window that Lisa couldn’t remember from her first tour, but the outside of Monmouth crawled with vines, and it wasn’t so hard to believe a bit had fallen in. If someone had brought them in, and thought himself the late Gansey–

But they had checked the upstairs. How had their boys met someone that they’d missed? Did the real estate agent know the house was so easily broken into?

Whatever the answer, it didn’t sit well with her. Monmouth Manufacturing fit their wants, but if it was unsafe, it wasn’t what they needed.

A bit of her thought to re-check the upstairs, but there was no way the boys would have heard the name Gansey without meeting someone, and she was not about to be labeled a threat by a crazy squatter.

She’d call the agent once she got home. This was too much of a red flag to reconsider.

“We’re going. Now.”

Her wife didn’t protest, though Lisa knew she’d have questions to answer when they were home. Her boys’ protests died, her tone of voice tipping them off to something being very, very wrong.

When they left Monmouth Manufacturing, they arrived at the scene of three teenagers bickering.

Rather, two teenagers bickering, and one watching from the driver’s seat of a very, very nice car.

“Noah,” a girl scolded the teen from earlier, her hair a mess and her clothes brightly mismatched, “don’t forget to first introduce yourself.”

“I meant to remember. I didn’t think they could see me.”

“To be fair,” the teen in the car said, his hair as tall as the loan Lisa would have to take to even dream of buying a ride so nice, “this was sudden. Speaking of, hello!”

It was weird. The whole exchange was weird, especially with such a cheery greeting tacked onto the end. Didn’t think they could see him? What did that even mean?

“Hello,” Lisa replied, voice tight. “Sorry. What are you three doing here?”

“We live nearby,” the driver said, “and we didn’t mean to intrude! We just got a little excited about someone maybe moving in, and came to say hi.”

“We haven’t signed anything yet. We don’t live here.”

“Lisa,” her wife admonished. “What’s gotten into you?”

Lisa shook her head. She’d talk about it later. Right then, they needed to leave. People with nice cars were often far worse than people without, a fact many seemed to forget.

“Boys,” she snapped, moving for the driver’s seat, “get in the car. We’re leaving.”

“Oh,” Noah said, his frown disappointed.

“Oookay then,” the driver drew out, low enough Lisa barely caught it.

“Wait,” the girl jumped to say, her hands up to slow them down, “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Blue. This is Noah, and that’s Henry, and Monmouth Manufacturing–”

“Listen,” Lisa cut in, her wife shooting her another questioning look, “I’m sure you’re all very nice. But we have to go. I’m sorry.”

Blue’s mouth snapped shut. Apparently sensing a losing battle, her hands dropped to her sides.

“I’m sorry for that,” Lisa heard her wife say while she climbed into her seat, “moving and all, it’s been stressful. It was nice meeting you. Take care, okay? Be safe.”

“Right,” Blue said, her hands on her hips and smile gone, her voice almost tired. “You too.”

Henry and Noah echoed her.

Lisa shoved her key into the ignition, revved it, and backed out of the gravel driveway.

In the back, the boys clambered to the window to wave good-bye. It was odd, as Lisa clearly saw Blue turn toward Noah and Henry continue tinkering with something in his car, so they couldn’t be waving at them. Then she ducked her head to get a better view and caught sight of Monmouth Manufacturing’s second floor window: two more teenagers stood there, the one with tattoos so dark she could see it from the ground waving.

Heart in her throat, she straightened up and focused on getting the hell out of there.

“Those two seemed so nice,” her wife said. “Why did you have to be all weird at them?”

“Two?”

“Yeah. Blue and Henry. Funny name, Blue, but you have a cousin named Galaxy.”

Throat dry, Lisa struggled to swallow.

“We’re not buying that house.”

“What, why not?” Her oldest piped up from the back. His brother echoed him. “But it was so cool.”

Her wife admitted, “The Gansey story was a little… worrying.”

“A little?”

“But everything else was perfect, Lisa. We’ll install cameras, we’ll make an even lower counter offer, and–”

“No, we’re not going back. That’s final.”

“Don’t use that tone of voice with me.” In the front, her wife scowled. In the back, her boys raised their voices in a louder protestation. “Listen, let’s talk about it. When we’re at home. Don’t be too hasty.”

“We’ll discuss it,” Lisa allowed, if only to calm down the boys, “fine. But that’s as much as I’m promising.”

Though still frowning, her wife said, “That’s fine.”

They were not going to move into that house. Let the city demolish it, or another family take it - Lisa didn’t care. Teenagers had died there, and someone squatting pretended to use his name? It was a bad omen.

The rest of the car ride passed in silence. Her wife searched on her phone for articles about Monmouth Manufacturing and then Henrietta. They discovered stories of city-wide blackouts, mysterious activity from surprise large groups of tourists, and the tragic, sudden deaths of Richard Campbell Gansey III and his two friends, Adam Parrish and Ronan Lynch had occurred with the span of a few months. Gansey's death happened during his mother's campaign celebration, which just about put the cap on how ill-timed the leaky pipe was. 

Although the real estate agent had said the deaths had been from a gas leak, a few old, gaudy websites wrote full articles on why it hadn’t been an accident. Only three articles wrote about it: all three claimed the boys died after a confrontation with a demon, though they disagreed on whether Parrish had summoned the demon, Gansey attempted and failed to make a deal with it, or Lynch’s family curse had brought it.

Although neither of them were particularly religious or superstitious (they had laughed at the first demon-filled article; they had to, it was ridiculous), the stories on top of the boys’ report of meeting a Gansey solidified Lisa's opposal to moving in and convinced her wife to agree.

The boys took it the hardest. But they were young; they would forget. Two visits had been enough.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! visit me at [tumblr](https://unkingly.tumblr.com) if you like.


End file.
